The River of No Return

couldn’t ride down to that empty house and demand sanctuary.
    Julia looked around, and a shiver of memory passed through her. This spot, right here at the edge of the woods—this was the place where she had seen Bella’s brother, crying. Nicholas Falcott, the young marquess.
    It had been ten years ago, on the day that the seventh marquess had died. Word had come in the afternoon that John Falcott had fallen and broken his neck. Grandfather had ridden over immediately to offer his help and his condolences. He told Julia to stay at home. “No place for a child!”
    But she had sneaked out—of course she had. Bella was a child, too, and Bella was at Falcott House, suffering. She would need her friend. Julia could almost feel Bella calling to her. So she had set out walking through the woods.
    When she had emerged just here, she had seen Bella’s older brother standing in the shadow of the trees. He was all bony elbows and knees. His arms were around his horse’s neck, his face pressed into its mane.
    Julia had taken a step backward, intending to steal into the shadows and return the way she had come. It would be terrible if he saw her. He was clearly here to be alone. But when the horse pricked its ears and whickered, Bella’s brother looked up as well. There was no hiding. Julia stepped forward into the sunlight. He had looked at her intently, not seeming to care that his cheeks were wet with tears. She smiled. It was the only thing she could think to do. They exchanged a few words. She offered him condolences for his father. He said he was obliged to her for her sympathy.
    Then he had mounted and ridden off toward the river, and Julia had turned back to Castle Dar.
    Now that gangly boy was a man three years dead. His bones were in Spain, and his monument stood beside his father’s in Stoke Canon.
    Julia stared across the meadows to Blackdown. There was smoke coming from the chimneys; she supposed the servants were keeping themselves warm. The family was not at home. A sad little family it was, now that the marquess was gone. Bella had always been full of news about his exploits at Oxford and later in London. After he enlisted, she showed Julia the letters that came from Spain, bursting with descriptions of the camps. He wrote about rabbit hunting, about how he and his friends would run packs of Spanish greyhounds across the dry plains, then eat rabbit stew by the light of the moon and stars. He was a convert to greyhounds for hunting rabbits, he said, but wasn’t sure they would suit the fox hunt. He wrote of Lord Arthur Wellesley and his staff, the revelries of winter camp. But there was never any description of battle, which left Bella frustrated. She wanted blood and gore.
    Then the letters had stopped coming.
    Julia sighed and patted Marigold’s neck. “Shall we run?” she whispered. Marigold tossed her head. Julia encouraged her to a quick trot and then a canter. The horse whinnied, loud and shrill, and stretched out, her long strides eating up the sweeping green meadow. Julia laughed in answer, relaxing into the rolling rhythm of the ride.
    * * *
    Nick awoke before the rest of the household and knew immediately where he was. He was home. He pushed back the linen sheets. How could he have forgotten the glory of heavy linen? No more cotton for him. He would find just such thick, glorious sheets, by hook or by crook, when he went back to the future. If he went back.
    Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he looked out of his bedroom window, over the mist-shrouded gardens, down to the river, which was glowing silver in the predawn light.
    Arkady had been right. It felt good to be the marquess. And it was funny—this morning he could barely remember how he’d felt a few weeks ago and two hundred years from now, his suspicion of the Guild, his anger. Or even how he’d felt yesterday, when he was talking to Clare. The way the title had revolted him, his desire to give it up. It must have been some version of the bends—entering the past too quickly. His emotions had been scrambled. Well, he felt fine now. So what if he was here to spy on people, perhaps even kill people? So what that Jem Jemison was installed as the new steward? Nick could handle it. He was Blackdown, he was here, and here was home. He stretched and stood, warmth spreading through his limbs.
    Arkady popped out of his bedchamber as Nick strode down the hallway on the way to breakfast. “Today we begin our investigation,” he